


Bad Day At A Bookie Joint

by DPPatricks



Series: Stories from scripts [2]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: A tip about a bookie joint's location turns into a much more dangerous situation than Starsky and Hutch anticipated, for both of them.Please believe that, no matter what you read at the beginning of Act 2, this is NOT a death fic.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Series: Stories from scripts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885522
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	Bad Day At A Bookie Joint

**Author's Note:**

> Another cross-posting from Flamingo's Archive.net; this one posted on 9/12/2014, this is a treatment adapted from a script I wrote in May, 1976. I wasn’t doing research for the show yet, I was only visiting the set as a guest. But the time I spent there, watching the guys work together during scenes, and interact between scenes, convinced me their partnership and, more importantly, their friendship was REAL. 
> 
> Although I have retained all the dialog from my script, I’ve distilled some of the descriptive portions, and deleted most scene changes and ‘directions.’ Some directorial instructions are included, in caps, but, hopefully, they will be self-explanatory. Character names are in capital letters the first time they appear, which is traditional in Hollywood scripts. Some editing has been done for this posting.

ACT 1

Timmons Trucking is a vast, very busy warehouse area in the industrial section of Bay City, with lots of trucks backed up to loading docks or pulling in and out of the yard. At the side of the huge structure, an outside stairway leads up to a second floor entrance. A car drives into the yard, maneuvers between the trucks and stops at the foot of the stairs. A man gets out of the car, carrying a briefcase, climbs the stairs, opens the door at the top and goes inside.

The man walks down the hallway, stops at the third door on the right and knocks: one… one… two… one; waits until there is a soft buzz and the door clicks open a crack, then enters a large room. CAMERA DOLLIES IN BEHIND; PANS SLOWLY. There are a dozen desks ranged around the room, six of them occupied; three other men stand talking to those at the desks. There are no windows. Several vats of colorless liquid are placed throughout the room. There are banks of file cabinets. All desks have phones and several of them are ringing. As the man moves to one of the desks and its occupant takes the briefcase, an argument taking place at another desk makes everyone stop and listens.

JAKE MASTERS, elderly, well- but not flashily-dressed, usually pleasant and easy-going, is having difficulty remaining calm. The MAN behind the desk seems to pay little or no attention to the fact that Masters is yelling at him; just continues to work his calculator, reading from the figures on sheets of paper in front of him.

Jake is losing patience: “What do you mean ‘He can’t be reached’? I gotta talk to him!”

The man behind the desk doesn’t even pause: “That’s impossible.”

“ _Why?_ You know me. I been workin’ for him for over twenty years. He damn well better talk to me. That kid’s got no right in my territory and Mr. Nichols better pull him outta there!”

The guy hasn’t even looked up at Jake, just keeps working: “Benson stays. Mr. Nichols told you that, Jake.”

“I thought he was kiddin’. He can’t do that to me. That’s my territory.”

“It was.”

Jake straightens up slowly, controlling his fury; looks around the room. CAMERA PANNING with his gaze, we see that business is brisk: huge amounts of money are being counted, entered in ledgers; people on the phones or moving from desk to desk. Jake takes it all in and his look turns thunderous. Across the room, between banks of files, is a coat rack attached to the wall. Next to the rack is a large, round mirror. TIGHTEN ON MIRROR and CUT TO:

A close view of BENNY NICHOLS, watching Jake through the one-way mirror in this small, hidden back room. Benny is in his 50s, dapper, supremely confident and in complete control of his surroundings. Through the mirror we can see Jake make some sort of decision, straighten, and turn toward the door. Over his shoulder, Benny speaks quietly to one of the two men in the room with him: “Get Benson. Tell him to take over the rest of Jake’s customers. Jake is going to have an accident in a day or so.”

*******

On a street at the edge of the warehouse district, the Torino is parked at the curb in front of a coffee shop. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic are heavy around the car. Inside, STARSKY and HUTCH are drinking coffee. They’ve evidently been there a while; Starsky glances at his watch. “Looks like whatever Dooley had to tell us wasn’t so important after all.”

Hutch is, as always, eternally patient. “Let’s give him another fifteen.” They drink their coffee, watching the parade go past. “You talked to Huggy yesterday. What was the reason he gave you for being back in the restaurant business?”

Starsky can’t hide a small smile, and doesn’t even try: “You knew that his cousin Dwayne, the one he sold the place to, left town last week, right?”

“Yeah. I seem to remember that Vice had developed a large interest in ‘cousin Dwayne.’”

Starsky’s small smile turns into a lop-sided grin: “Yeah, well, evidently Dwayne called Huggy from Omaha, or somewhere, and told him he might as well take the place back for a while; no sense lettin’ a perfectly good front… er ‘business’ out of the family.”

As Hutch chuckles, in the background, through the rear window of the Torino, we see Jake Masters come around the corner, walking toward the coffee shop. He stops as he recognizes the car; thinks a moment, then starts toward the detectives.

Starsky and Hutch are still ruminating about the situation with their friend: “Actually, Huggy said the main reason he decided to do it was because he missed the ‘respectable’ base of operations it gave him.”

Hutch chuckles again: “‘Operations’ is right. Huggy’ll never change.”

At that moment Jake reaches the passenger window, waits until Hutch notices him, then hunkers down next to the car, both arms on the window sill. “You guys want Benny Nichols, right?”

Hutch glances at Starsky, getting a firm nod, before he turns back to Jake. “What did you have in mind, Jake?”

Jake can already see his revenge. “I’ll give ya his whole bookie operation.”

Another longer look between the detectives; very interested. But wary.

Unhurriedly, they both get out of the car. Hutch puts his arm genially around Jake’s shoulders; Starsky comes around the back of the Torino; joins them and they all walk toward the coffee shop.

Hutch is seeing good things in their immediate future. “Can we buy you a cup of coffee, Mr. Masters?”

“Sure.”

Starsky gallantly opens the café door for them: “You can tell us all about it.”

As they enter the shop, Starsky catches a waitress’ eye and asks for “Three coffees, please, and the check.” 

Hutch guides Jake to a back booth, Jake and he slide in on one side, Starsky, almost bouncing in anticipation, follows; takes the other side. The waitress brings the coffees, puts the check down, and leaves.

Starsky, in spite of his good cheer, is still cautious. “Now, what’s the matter, Jake? We thought you were one of Benny’s boys. You’ve been makin’ book for him for a lot of years.”

Jake is finally able to vent his pent-up frustrations and anger: “You’re damn right I have! And how does he repay me? By letting some punk kid come stompin’ into my territory, that’s how.” He looks at each of the detectives, doing his best to make himself understood. “I’ve been bookie for everybody from Queen Street over to Charles for more than twenty years. Now, all of a sudden, Nichols says I gotta hand over half my customers to this Benson punk.” Letting sarcasm bleed through his anger, he continues: “He says I’m getting too old, I gotta slow down, it’s a young man’s business these days.” Now the anger’s back in control. “Well, he ain’t gonna get away with it. I’ll blow his whole organization first.”

Hutch puts a calming hand on Jake’s forearm: “Take it easy, Jake. We’re listening.”

Jake takes a deep breath, only just beginning to realize the chance he could be taking, but resolved to follow it though. “His main collection point; I’ll give it to ya.”

Starsky can’t keep the surprise out of his voice, or off his face: “The Accounting House?”

“That’s what they call it. Oh, sure, some of your snitches know where it is, but you couldn’t pay ‘em enough. And even if you found it, without the code, there’d be nothin’ left by the time you busted the door down.” A sly smile creeps across his face. “Now me? I ain’t no ordinary snitch.” But, with that said, Jake suddenly shuts up, probably starting to have second thoughts.

So, while Jake thinks about things, Starsky and Hutch silently discuss the possibilities: _this could be incredibly good, but we will really have to be careful, partner._ Finally, Hutch nudges Jake: “You want to tell us?”

Jake shakes himself out of his uncertainty: “Wha’? Yeah. You bet I do. You know the warehouse, corner of 5th and Addison? Timmons Trucking?”

“We know it.”

“You take the outside stairs, then there’s a hallway. You want the third door on the right.” He raps his knuckles lightly against the table top: the code. “Do it just like that, or you get nothin’.” He repeats the taps exactly. “That’s this week’s code. They’ll change it Sunday, midnight.”

Starsky nods. Jake takes a deep breath, gulps the rest of his coffee. Hutch gets up and moves over to Starsky’s side of the booth so that Jake can make his exit. His joviality is only a little forced: “Merry Christmas, fellas. Have fun!”

Hutch’s reply is thoughtful: “Thanks Jake. We’ll be in touch.” He and Starsky sit for a few moments, each silently considering the situation. Finally, Starsky glances at his watch and Hutch knows exactly what his partner is thinking: “By the time we get a warrant and get over there, it’ll be noon.”

Starsky is nothing if not familiar with the inevitable: “It’ll take us two or three hours to get all of ‘em booked, and they’ll be back on the street before we finish writing up the reports.” They sit for another few seconds; look at each other; shrug resignedly. Hutch slides out of the booth, Starsky picks up the check and begins fishing for money as he follows Hutch toward the door.

*******

A short time later, at the Precinct, Starsky, Hutch and CAPTAIN DOBEY walk out of Dobey’s office toward the elevators. Dobey is upbeat but as wary as his detectives: “I sure hope Jake knows what he’s talking about. This could really put a crimp in Nichols’ style.”

Starsky exchanges a quick look with his partner, but does his best to reassure his captain: “He sounded straight enough to us, Cap’n.”

Dobey slows as he nears the elevators, not wanting to sound too mother-hennish, but concerned for his boys: “But I’m not sure I like the idea of your going in there alone. If it’s as big an operation as the word has it, you could need some help.”

They arrive at the elevators; Starsky pushed the DOWN button. “What’d ya have in mind?”

“If you could wait an hour or so, I could get Farley and Bergstrom, and some uniforms to go with you.”

The guys exchange a look, discussing things. Hutch puts their thoughts into words, for Dobey’s benefit, but doesn’t look away from Starsky: “There’s no telling how many people Jake’s shot his mouth off to. We’d better go on and do it now.”

Starsky is still looking at his partner as he tries to placate his captain: “And don’t worry, Captain. If we need help, we’ll holler.”

Dobey glares at each of them, still unsure, but hoping for the best. “Okay then. The warrant’s waiting for you at Judge Mayhew's office. Good luck.”

*******

At the Timmons Trucking warehouse, the Torino pulls into the yard; stops near the staircase. Starsky and Hutch get out warily; climb the stairs; Starsky opens the door and Hutch precedes him inside.

They move to the 3rd door on the right, take positions on either side, against the wall; draw their guns. After another look, Hutch taps the code; they wait, primed and ready. A quiet buzz is heard and the door clicks open a crack.

They crash through the door, Hutch high and on the right, Starsky low and on the left; scan the startled room quickly, crouched, guns braced but not pointing at anyone. Yet. All his pent-up adrenaline comes out in Starsky’s voice as he shouts: “Police! Freeze!”

Hutch shoots him a look, silently asking _Where did you dig that old one up?_ Starsky just returns a shrug. But everybody else in the room has taken the command seriously and indeed frozen. Hutch starts to move carefully around the edge of the room to his right; Starsky moves left. Hutch takes the warrant out of his inside jacket pocket, holds it up for everyone to see, then lays it on the first desk he passes; his voice is quieter but he’s not going to accept any disobedience either. “Okay, nice and easy, now. Everybody move slowly to the center of the room. Keep your hands where we can see them…. Easy now. Move.”

All begin to comply, looking uncertainly at each other but not ready to make trouble. Starsky continues to move around the room, checking what’s on all the desks. CUT TO:

Inside the small back room, one of the men who was with Nichols earlier, THACKER, speaks softly to his companion: “Get the phones!”

The second man reaches to the wall and yanks a large plug from its socket. CUT TO:

In the main room, Hutch keeps the clerks covered while Starsky carefully searches each: none has a weapon, so they both start to relax, just a little. Hutch, standing behind one of the desks, sees a stack of money and several ledgers. “Starsk?… I think we could use a little of that help the Captain mentioned. This looks like our lucky day.”

Starsky nods; picks up a phone; gets no dial tone. He puts it down; moves to another desk and picks up that phone; still nothing. Something’s very fishy. He and Hutch exchange a tense look; Hutch nods.

Starsky’s “Be right back,” is clipped and tight. He runs out the door.

Hutch, still keeping the people in the center of the room covered, moves to another desk, tries the phone; still nothing; addresses the clerks: “Gee, that’s too bad.” Another desk, another dead phone. “Does this happen often? You’ll just have to speak to the phone company about it.” CUT TO:

In the small back room, the two men watch through the mirror, guns now drawn. Thacker is fitting a silencer to his automatic. CUT TO: 

Out in the main room, Hutch moves away from the wall where the mirror hangs, concentrating on the suspects. The two armed men exit the back room soundlessly, Thacker sighting on Hutch’s back.

Something, a slight sound, a sense, something alerts Hutch and he spins, beginning to drop to his crouch, takes the bullet in the chest. Even as he is knocked backward by the impact, Hutch manages to sight and fire, hitting the would-be assassin and throwing him backward into the man still standing in the doorway behind him.

As Hutch falls, pandemonium erupts; everyone shouting and scrambling. The SECOND MAN from the back room untangles himself from his dying companion and steps out into the main room, quickly takes charge: “Shut up! Listen to me…. Don’t leave the ledgers! Dump everything in the acid. We’ve been through this drill; what’s the matter with you?”

Several of the clerks attempt to obey but others get in their way. One guy grabs a stack of money and heads for the door. As he opens it, Starsky comes barreling through it, bowling the guy over, sending the money flying.

As Starsky rolls away from the fallen clerk, two shots rip into the wall above and behind him. The gunman fires again; Starsky pops up, triggers two shots, hitting the man in the shoulder. He stands quickly and everyone freezes again, this time without being told. Looking around hurriedly, not able to take too much attention from the cowering clerks, he can’t see his partner anywhere. “Hutch!” No answer. He jerks his gun at the crowd: “Everyone! Back into the center. Face down on the floor. MOVE!”

They do it, fairly quickly. “Hutch?” Still no answer. Starsky moves down the right side of the room, takes the wounded man’s gun and throws it on the nearest desk; handcuffs him to a different desk. Straightening, he spots the open door of the small room. As he starts toward the previously hidden space, he finally sees Hutch behind one of the desks. Suddenly, Starsky can’t remember how to breathe.

Hutch is lying on his right side, his hands still holding his gun; he’s unconscious.

Jolting himself out of his frozen state, Starsky quickly checks out the hidden room, makes sure the first gunman is dead, tosses the silenced automatic on the desk with the one already there; checks that the people on the floor are quiet; moves to Hutch. He kneels beside him, fingers seeking the carotid pulse, holding his breath. Even before his brain registers that his partner is still alive, he reaches for the nearest phone, pulling it down on the floor next to him, lifts the receiver. No dial tone.

Detecting a faint pulse and in no mood to be polite, Starsky singles out a person on the floor he recognizes: “Galloway! Is that you? You better tell me how to fix the phones!”

GALLOWAY is too scared to dissemble: “It’s in the office, Starsky.”

“Get up and get it! Easy, but do it now. Everybody else just stay where you are.”

Getting to his feet, Galloway stumbles to the doorway, reaches across the dead man and re-plugs the phone master.

Starsky motions him back where he was; dials. Before anyone on the other end has a chance to speak, he barks: “Starsky! Get an ambulance and back up units to the warehouse, Fifth and Addison; upstairs. Officer down. Tell ‘em to _move it!_ ”

He hangs up, watching those on the floor. Slowly, his eyes come back to Hutch. Very gently he pries Hutch’s fingers from his gun and sets it aside. Pulling a jacket off a nearby chair, he folds it and slips it under his partner’s head, his right hand coming to rest on, and gripping, the back of Hutch’s neck. “Hang on, Hutch. Ambulance’ll be here any minute… Just hang on.” He takes off his own jacket and spreads it over Hutch, his hand then remaining on Hutch’s shoulder. “I’m right here, buddy.”

Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Starsky looks over quickly. “Galloway, if you move your head again, I’ll blow it off.” He sucks in a breath and tries to contain his fury. “But you can tell me what happened. Who shot him?”

“Thacker.”

“Who?”

“The guy in the office. He tried to shoot Hutch in the back. He’s dead, isn’t he? Thacker, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s Hutch?”

Starsky doesn’t even bother to answer. He looks at Hutch, going over all of it, sick with worry. Finally, speaking so quietly only Hutch can hear him, knowing that somehow he’s being heard: “Shot you from ambush, partner. But you got the bastard anyway…. Hang on, Hutch. You gotta hang on… I‘m right here.” TIGHTEN SLOWLY as he tries to keep himself together, more scared than he’s ever been. FADE OUT.

ACT 2

An ambulance races through traffic, lights and siren full bore. Inside, Starsky, his expression almost frighteningly blank, watches over an unconscious Hutch.

As the ambulance pulls up to the doors of the ER, the attendants pile out, race to the back and open the doors as people hurry out from inside, to help.

*******

Sometime later, in the Operating Theater’s waiting area, Starsky and Dobey pace and wait; wait and pace. There’s nothing to say so they say nothing.

In the OT, a large team of surgeons, probably consisting of more than one specialist, works intently.

*******

Later that evening, a crowd of reporters, both print and TV, is gathered at the main entrance of the hospital. They’re all waiting, and it looks as if they’ve been there a long time. One reporter holds a microphone and faces a TV camera: “We have just been informed that Captain Harold Dobey will have a statement for us in the next few minutes. Hopefully, he’ll be able to give us some definite information about the shooting that took place early this afternoon in a downtown warehouse, and the condition of the police officer who was wounded. Up to now, there has been no official word concerning any --”

Behind the reporter, Dobey comes through the doors and approaches the group. Starsky exits behind him but instead of accompanying his captain, he leans against the wall next to the doors, no expression on his haggard face, his eyes unfocused. The reporter, immediately aware, breaks off; turns around, still addressing his audience, “Here’s Captain Dobey now.”

Dobey stands, very grim, composing his thoughts; the reporters move closer.

Finally, his voice pure gravel, Dobey begins his prepared statement: “Detective Kenneth Hutchinson… died… a few minutes ago, without regaining consciousness.” He pauses for a moment, then continues, his voice even harsher than before: “He was brutally gunned down from ambush while in the performance of what he and his partner, Detective David Starsky, thought would be a routine bust of a local bookie joint.” With the facts out of the way, Dobey allows his anger to take over: “It was neither ‘routine’ nor just a ‘local bookie joint.’”

The reporters are a mixture of cynical and skeptical, but this is a big story and they don’t want to miss a word. Starsky’s expression alters not at all.

Making sure everyone is getting his words down, and the statement is going out live on all the local channels, Dobey bears down even more: “It was a money store, operated by Benny Nichols, for the collection of syndicate funds.” He catches the eye of every reporter willing to look at him: “And now I’m making a public promise. With the evidence acquired this afternoon, and the full cooperation of those arrested at the time, I’m going to put Benny Nichols away for the rest of his life!”

Suddenly, having used up his anger, Dobey appears to be terribly tired as he continues more quietly: “The Department will release a full statement about the shooting as soon as it’s available… including arrangements for the funeral tomorrow afternoon.”

He lowers his head and pushes, almost roughly, through the reporters, refusing to respond to the barrage of questions thrown at him.

“Captain Dobey, is it true that another man was killed this afternoon?”

“How many were arrested?”

“Who shot Detective Hutchinson?”

“Captain Dobey…”

Starsky, realizing that Dobey is leaving, pushes himself off the wall and goes after the Captain. He’s oblivious to the questions now being directed at him.

“Detective Starsky, can you tell us what happened?”

“Hutchinson was your partner, wasn’t he?”

“How do you feel about Benny Nichols”?

*******

As Starsky pushes silently through the shouting reporters and climbs into a black-and-white beside Dobey, CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal a TV screen in Nichols’ large, plush living room. Nichols and two of his men, NEAL and MARTIN, have been watching. On the screen, the reporter steps back in front of the camera, beginning to make his closing remarks, as Neal turns the set off.

Nichols gets up, walks casually to the bar and begins to build himself a drink. He is studiously unaware of his subordinates’ tension. Finally, Neal can’t take it any longer: “Do I put out a couple of contracts, Mr. Nichols?”

If anything, Nichols is almost patronizing. “Relax, Neal. We don’t have any problems. Dobey was just shooting his mouth off. His ‘evidence’ doesn’t amount to anything because he only has a bunch of books with numbers in them. No names, no dates, nothing but numbers. And none of my people are going to talk. So, just relax.”

Neal isn’t convinced. “What about Starsky? He could be trouble.”

Nichols thinks about that for a minute. “I don’t know… You two keep an eye on him. I want to know how he handles it.”

*******

At the precinct, Dobey walks into the squad room, Starsky a few steps behind. Three others detectives are there, they’re all on edge, waiting to see how Starsky’s going to react to his partner’s death. Starsky goes directly to his desk; picks up the phone; punches four numbers; barks as someone answers on the other end: “This is Starsky. I want everything you have on Benny Nichols. I want it now!”

As he almost throws the phone down, Dobey puts a gentling hand on his shoulder, but his voice is firm: “Forget it Dave. Somebody else will handle this.”

Starsky looks at him, dumbfounded; then nearly explodes: “The HELL! Nobody else handles Nichols. He’s mine!

Dobey really doesn’t like where this is going: “What do you mean by that?”

Ugly sarcasm is all too audible in Starsky’s voice: “Oh, come on, Captain, you’re a detective. You can figure it out.”

Dobey, having had all he can take this day, responds angrily: “Knock it off! You’re too good a cop to talk like that.”

Starsky spins away from him, his voice close to shattering, “Oh God, that’s beautiful.” He looks around the room as if lost. When he turns back to Dobey, he's angry now himself: “Do you want to know why I was a good cop?” He looks at each of the men in the room, ending with Dobey: “Because of Hutch. He covered for me all the time. He kept me clean. He made me care about this stinkin’ job!”

Dobey doesn’t want to hear any more: “That’s enough!”

“You’re damn right it’s enough. Because Hutch is dead.” He takes a deep breath; that’s obviously the first time he’s said the words. “And Nichols as good as killed him…. So, one way or another, I’m gonna get Nichols.”

Dobey takes a step toward him, his voice low but hard: “Starsky, I’m telling you, you’re off the case! If you try, in any way, to take the law into your own hands… I’ll make sure you fall for it.”

Starsky stares at him for a beat. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Believe it.”

There is uncomfortable silence in the room while Starsky and Dobey stare at each other. Then Dobey softens, but only a little. “Now why don’t you take a few days off, go home, get your head together?”

Starsky looks around the room again, apparently seeing nothing, then starts slowly toward the door; stops as something occurs to him. Turns back. “Where’s my car?”

Dobey, glad to have an easy answer, almost smiles: “Downstairs. Fred brought it back from the warehouse.”

Starsky turns toward the door again, offering a sullen, “Thanks.”

Dobey lifts a hand toward his retreating back. “Leave word where you can be reached.”

No response. As Starsky opens the door and starts through, Dobey barks: “Starsky!” Starsky stops, waits, without turning around. “I meant what I said about Nichols.” After another moment, Starsky goes out, closes the door behind him.

Dobey doesn’t even try to hide his worry, concern and even fear.

*******

That night, in Huggy Bear’s newly re-opened establishment, HUGGY BEAR is behind the bar, talking very quietly to the only three customers in the place. Starsky walks in; stops just inside the doors, as if not remembering where he is, or why he came. Huggy comes around from behind the bar, puts a hand on his shoulder in genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry, Starsky.”

Starsky’s response is just plain defeated: “I know, Hug.” He walks out from under the hand, not consciously being unkind, toward a corner table. “Bring me a bottle of bourbon.”

Huggy follows him, getting worried. “You don’t want that stuff. You don’t even drink.” Huggy is really pretty upset; for all his cynicism and purported unconcern for the world, Hutch’s death has gotten to him. “We know how you feel. We all hurt…. Hutch was our friend, too.”

Dropping tiredly into the booth, Starsky looks at him, no emotion on his face or, more importantly, in his eyes. “Just bring the bottle, Hug.”

“Listen Starsky, Hutch wouldn’t want you to --”

He is stopped by the look of terrible pain that flashes across Starsky’s face but then is gone in an instant. “I know what you’re tryin’ to do, and I appreciate it… but… not now.” After a few moments, when Huggy doesn’t move, Starsky starts to get up but Huggy gently pushes him back, then stands looking at him for another few moments; finally goes behind the bar; gets a bottle and glass; brings them back and puts them down in front of his hurting friend. Starsky opens the bottle, pours a generous amount, picks up the glass with both hands and sips. Afterward, he just sits, elbows on the table, glass held against his mouth, staring at nothing. After a few beats, Huggy turns and moves back behind the bar; stands near the customers, all of them looking at the man in the corner booth. They’d like to help but Starsky evidently isn’t going to let them.

*******

Later that night, a private ambulance pulls away from the rear entrance of the hospital, lights flashing, but without its siren blaring. As quickly as possible it makes its way to a small private clinic on the outskirts of the city. A sign near the entrance reads FESSENDEN MEMORIAL CLINIC.

As the ambulance pulls up to a back entrance, the attendants jump out, move around to the back of the vehicle, open the doors; DOCTOR REYNOLDS, gets out and turns to help the attendants unload the gurney.

Inside the clinic, a set of elevator doors slide open and Dr. Reynolds emerges. In his early 40s, he is tall and commanding, with an understanding face, but right now, he’s definitely all business. He quickly approaches the nurse’s station where a nurse, BETH ADAMS, is waiting for him. She is moderately pretty, petite and exudes an air of total competence.

“Is everything ready, Beth?”

“Yes, Doctor. Five Twelve; it’s our most isolated room. It’s been completely equipped as an ICU. I’ve arranged for three other nurses; one of us on duty and one on stand-by, at all times. And none of us will leave the hospital, or speak to anyone until whatever this is about, is over.” She is curious, but doing a good job of hiding it.

The Doctor picks up the phone, dials a short number. “Okay.” As he hangs up, he turns back to her. “Thank you, Beth. I appreciate everything you’ve done. I know it’s created problems but it’s important, and I particularly wanted you on this one.”

She’s a little embarrassed at his forthrightness and attempts to redirect the conversation: “The patient’s condition?”

“He’s critical. I didn’t want to have to move him tonight, but I had no choice. Now, in addition to you and the other nurses, there will be a plainclothes policeman in the room at all times. They will enter and leave the back way, to arouse as little comment as possible from the rest of the staff. Absolutely no one else is allowed in that room without my express consent. If anyone asks you questions, report it immediately to me or to the officer.” Now she’s even more confused and can’t hide it. In a softer tone, he tries to reassure her. “You’ll understand in a minute, they’re bringing him up now.”

Just then the elevator indicator lights up and dings softly; the doors open and the two attendants wheel out a gurney, followed by Dobey and a detective.

The attendants push the gurney after the Doctor who has motioned for them to follow him and has started down the hall. Dobey trails behind, his steps slow and labored.

Beth hangs back, trying to see the patient’s face. When she does, she can’t disguise her shock, but says nothing; moves quickly to Hutch’s side, keeping pace, her hand covering one of his.

Once inside the indicated room, there is a minute or so of precise, concise motion: getting Hutch transferred to the bed and the monitoring devices attached and functioning. Dobey and the detective stand out of the way but keep a wary eye on everything. Finally, the attendants leave with the gurney. The Doctor studies the monitors closely for long moments; Beth is busy with the chart until the Doctor turns to her. “I’m staying here at the hospital, too. I’m to be called at any time if there is the slightest change.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The Doctor moves over to stand next to Dobey. “He took it better than I dared hope. If we can avoid complications for the next forty-eight hours, I think he’ll make it.”

Silently, Dobey motions toward Beth, who is standing next to the bed, her hand on Hutch’s wrist; her tension and concern very evident. The Doctor answers Dobey’s unasked question in a low voice: “Beth Adams. If you remember, a year or so ago, before I convinced her I needed her here, she was head nurse at County, and took care of Starsky that time he was shot… The three of them got to be pretty good friends and I knew she’d want to be part of this.”

As Beth holds Hutch’s wrist, ostensibly taking his pulse, her expression is equal parts worry and hope.

Knowing they’ve done everything possible for the moment, Dobey and the Doctor leave, while the detective settles himself in the room’s single chair.

*******

Outside in the hallway, Dobey and the Doctor walk back to the nurse’s station. Dobey’s still extremely worried and doesn’t try to hide it. “I told Starsky I’d call him…. Would you talk to him? He might like to hear it from you.”

Knowing the strain they’ve all been under, the Doctor tries to inject a little levity: “You mean you don’t think he’ll believe you?”

But Dobey has taken him seriously. “No, it isn’t that --”

The Doctor smiles and interrupts gently: “I know. That was supposed to be amusing. Sorry. Sure, I’ll be happy to talk to him.” After another beat he asks, seriously, “How’s he taking it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since this afternoon at the precinct. And that was one of the hairiest things I’ve ever witnessed…. I just hope he remembers he’s playing a role.”

“Don’t worry, Dave will be all right.”

*******

At Huggy’s, the place is crowded, but very subdued; everyone trying to be casual and not succeeding. Starsky is sitting in the same booth, in practically the same position as when we left him; the bottle is nearly empty.

At the bar, Huggy and another PATRON, talk softly, their eyes glancing occasionally at Starsky. The man looks over again. “How long did you say he’s been here?”

Huggy can’t keep the genuine concern out of his voice, or off his face. "Six hours. For somebody who drinks a lot, that ain’t too much liquor in that amount of time. But Starsky never touches the stuff, and I don’t know what it’s gotta be doin’ to him.”

“Has he talked to anybody?”

“He hasn’t moved, ‘cept to go to the head. That’s what scares me. He just sits there, starin’ at nothin’…. drinkin’.

A few stools away, Neal and Martin nurse beers, listening to Huggy talk to his customer, and keeping an eye on the occupant in the corner booth.

Huggy and his customer are joined by ANOTHER MAN, who climbs on a stool and leans forward, keeping his voice low: “I knew this would happen.”

Huggy and the first patron look at the new man, not understanding what he means, so he continues. “Well, haven’t you ever wondered? I know I have…. What would happen to one of those guys if the other was killed?…. They were too close.”

The silence is deafening as they all think about that. At last, Huggy shakes his head. “No. There’s no such thing. I think what’s got Starsky so up tight is the way Hutch got it, from ambush. That, plus the fact that he’ll never be able to nail Nichols for it.”

At his corner table, Starsky empties the bottle into his glass; picks it up and takes a long swallow. At the bar, the phone rings and Huggy answers it. “This is the Pits and you have reached the Bear…. Yeah, Captain, he’s here…. Well, I don’t know…. Maybe you oughta wait ‘til morning…. All right, I’ll get him. But take it easy, okay?”

He puts the handset down on the bar; moves around and over to Starsky; lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Starsky?”

No response. So Huggy shakes the shoulder a little. “Starsky? Captain Dobey wants to talk to you…. You hear me?”

Starsky is barely able to get the words past the constriction in his throat. “I hear you.” He doesn’t move for several long moments, just stares at his drink. Then he pushes himself to his feet; makes his way slowly, unsteadily, to the bar. Everyone in the vicinity moves away so that he’ll have as much privacy as possible. Starsky drops onto a stool, picks up the phone, scared to death of what he’ll hear; finally puts the instrument to his ear, his voice barely audible: “Yeah.”

At the clinic, Dobey and the Doctor stand at the nurse’s station. Dobey tries to sound as positive as he can: “We’re here. He came through it fine. I’m going to let the Doctor tell you.” Handing the phone to the Doctor, he cautions: “You do the talking, he could be overheard.”

The Doctor takes the phone and does his best to be encouraging and comforting at the same time: “Dave? It’s Dr. Reynolds. He made the trip much better than I thought he would. He’s stable; definitely holding his own. The next twenty-four hours will be critical, but he’s strong, and he’ll be getting the best possible care.” He even manages to put a smile in his voice when he continues: “Beth Adams is with him, and I know she wants to be remembered to you.” After hearing nothing for a few moments, and thinking he might have been disconnected: “Dave?… Did you hear me?”

Starsky is having a difficult time getting the words out and, when he finally does, it’s barely a choked whisper: “Yeah.”

“Take care of yourself, Dave. Everything’s going to be all right here.” Dobey gestures for the phone again, so the Doctor signs off with: “Here’s Captain Dobey again.”

“Starsky, are you okay?”

Starsky raises his voice and adds belligerence to it: “Yeah, I told you I was.”

“Are people listening?”

“Yeah, maybe… So _what?_ ”

“Are you drunk?”

“You bet I am! Don’t I have a right to be?

People can’t help but overhear now and they’re getting very uncomfortable.

Dobey tries to calm things down a bit. “Listen, Starsky --”

“No, you listen! You told me to take some time off, so that’s what I’m doin’. And what I do with that time is my own business.” He waits several beats, as if listening to Dobey dress him down. “I’ll tell you when I’m comin’ back. When I’ve found just one good reason to, that’s when!”

Starsky hangs up the phone sharply. On the other end, both Dobey and the Doctor can’t hide their concern.

Sliding shakily off his stool, Starsky makes his way back to his booth; sits, trying to absorb what he’s heard and prepare for the next phase. Thank God Hutch is still alive but he can’t go anywhere near him, and it’s tearing him apart. Picking up the bottle, he realizes it’s empty. “Huggy! Bring me another bottle.”

People start to drift back to their previous places, talking quietly. Huggy hesitates, then takes a new bottle over to his friend; goes back to stand behind the bar with the two patrons.

Neal and Martin confer quietly; Martin gets up and leaves; Neal continues to watch Starsky covertly.

Huggy's initial customer is concerned. “What are you going to do?”

Huggy shakes his head. “Nothin’”.

“You can’t let him out of here like that.”

Truer words were never spoken and Huggy knows it. “No. I can’t.” On their helplessness, FADE OUT.

ACT 3

At the clinic the hours have crawled as slowly as they have for Starsky, but the heart monitor beeps its steady rhythm reassuringly. Dr. Reynolds and a Nurse are checking to make sure everything is as it should be. A different plain clothes officer sits in the chair, well back out of the way.

Seeing something on one of the monitors, the Doctor moves closer to the bed and leans over his patient. “Ken…. Can you hear me?”

It takes few moments, and a couple of false starts, but Hutch’s eyes open, glance across the Doctor’s face, not seeing the person he was looking for; close again.

“It’s Doctor Reynolds… Can you hear me?”

Hutch’s eyes open again, focus and stay open this time, but he’s not up to speech yet so the Doctor continues, very soothingly. “Now I want you to be very still and not try to move. Just take it easy.” As he can see Hutch trying to concentrate, he continues: “Do you remember what happened?”

That Hutch does remember. “I got… shot.”

“Yes, you did. But --”

“There was a door… where there hadn’t been… They waited ‘til Starsky….” Suddenly, Hutch tries to raise his head, urgency on his face and in his voice: “Starsky?”

The Doctor puts restraining hands on Hutch’s shoulders and holds him down. “Take it easy, Ken. Dave’s all right. He wasn’t hurt.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. He’s fine. And you need to relax.”

Hutch’s head falls back but he’s gripped with pain; bad and getting worse. The Doctor barks an order to the nurse: “Nurse, one c.c. morphine.”

Hutch begins to struggle, against the pain, and something else: “No! I don’t want… I don’t…”

The Doctor leans close, holding one hand on Hutch’s shoulder, motioning with the other for the nurse to hurry: “Ken, listen to me. You’re worried about the time you were forcibly strung out on heroin.” Hutch looks at him sharply, the vivid, terrible memories clear within the pain. As soothingly as possible, the Doctor continues: “Don’t be! This has absolutely nothing to do with that.” The nurse has prepared the syringe and injects it into Hutch’s IV drip line. “This is only going to help control the pain so that you’ll be able to sleep. Right now, pain is one of your biggest enemies, and you can’t fight it alone…. Trust me, Ken.”

As the drug begins to take effect, Hutch starts to relax. He looks at the doctor, his eyes getting dull but the questions burning. “How…? How did you know?”

“The anesthesiologist found traces of the old scars… what do you call them? Tracks?” Hutch nods wearily, once. “Dave told me about it. But don’t worry, okay? That was a long time ago and has no bearing on this…. Now, just relax. Get some sleep. Somebody will be here all the time, so I want you to relax… and sleep.”

With Hutch fading into sleep instead of unconscious, the Doctor straightens up, tired and still worried. As he starts to leave he turns back to the nurse: “Any change, call me.”

*******

In the apartment upstairs at Huggy’s, the next morning, Starsky, who has slept in his clothes, wakes up slowly. Coming to awareness of where he is, and why, he sits up on the edge of the bed. In addition to having an unaccustomed hangover, he’s still terribly uptight and down. Carrying this kind of pretense is rougher than anybody thought it would be; mostly because, at any moment, his fears could become a reality. Hutch isn’t out of the woods yet and Starsky can’t be with him; he has to keep up the charade.

There’s a knock at the door and, without waiting for an answer, Huggy comes in, carrying a tray: on it are a pot of coffee, cups, juice and glasses. He moves to the sideboard and sets the tray down. “Juice and coffee. If you want anything else you’ll have to fix it yourself. Cook’s got the flu.” He pours two cups of coffee; walks over and hands one to Starsky.

“Thanks.”

“How do you feel?”

“I’ll make it.”

Huggy sits down on the bed next to him. “That’s good. Because Hutch will, too.”

Starsky turns to him, almost spilling the coffee, his eyes demanding an explanation, but giving nothing away. Huggy goes on conversationally. “Dobey just called. He wanted to know how you were. I said how the hell should I know how you were, you were still asleep. Then he wanted to know about last night… so I told him.” After a beat, he softens his tone. “He’s worried about you… And, knowin’ all the things the three of us have been through together… he told me about Hutch.”

The suspicion is gone from Starsky’s eyes as he turns back to drink his coffee. Just having Huggy know will make it a little easier, but his tension surfaces as sarcasm: “What’d he tell you do to, keep an eye on me?”

Huggy puts on a wounded expression and milks it. “Come on now, Starsky. You know better than that.”

Starsky gets up and starts to pace; stops at the sideboard and tops off his coffee; turns back. “I’m sorry, Hug. Don’t mind me. I seem to be having a little trouble with reality this morning…. Did he say how Hutch was doin’?”

“Just that he’s hangin’ tough.” He knows the answer but has to ask: “You goin’ after Nichols?”

“Don’t ask!”

“Okay. So I’m not askin’.”

Starsky relents a little, he has to. “You’ll probably get pretty sick and tired of me around here in the next few days. I may get to be a fixture.”

Huggy simply cannot resist that opening. “There goes the neighborhood.”

Starsky’s reaction is the first smile he’s cracked in what seems like years!

*******

At the clinic, Beth is intent on watching the monitors and entering notes on Hutch’s chart. He wakes up slowly; gets his eyes to focus; looks around and sees Beth standing at the monitors, thinks he recognizes her, but isn’t sure. “Beth?”

She looks over, smiles; puts the chart down on the tray table; moves to him and takes his hand. “Hello, Hutch. Take it easy. I’ll get Dr. Reynolds.”

“No. Not yet… please… give me a minute.”

She’s hesitant, but then, she wouldn’t mind a moment of looking into those intense blue eyes, uninterrupted, either. “How do you feel?”

“That’s not very funny.” His voice catches and he flinches.

She leaps into nurse mode, glancing at the monitors: “Is the pain bad?”

“Not too.”

She can tell he’s lying just from how tightly he’s suddenly squeezing her hand, but she doesn’t contradict right away. After a beat, he’s got questions: “How long?”

“Since it happened?” He nods. “About twenty-six hours.”

Hutch digests this, then the next question is almost pleading: “Have you seen Starsky?”

Without thinking about what her words will do to Hutch, she just answers truthfully. “No.”

It takes a moment and, before she can cover it, the implication registers. He looks at her, worried, questioning, but having tensed up, the pain grips again, worse. He squeezes her hand harder: “Why not?…. Something’s wrong!… Tell me… what’s goin’ on?”

Beth pulls away quickly; moves to the phone as Hutch is wracked by another spasm, talking soothingly to her patient as she dials. “Take it easy, Hutch. Dave is all right. I promise you. He just hasn’t had a chance to….” Then, sharply into the phone: “Dr. Reynolds. Five Twelve. Stat.”

Hanging up, she goes back to him, takes his hand tightly in both of hers, her eyes on the monitors. We can hear the heart beeping rapidly and slightly erratically, indicative of Hutch’s struggles.

*******

A while later, the pips across the monitor screen, and the corresponding beeps are slower, and stable again. The Doctor and Beth are standing on either side of the bed, Beth still holding Hutch’s hand. Hutch is again asleep. The Doctor’s tone isn’t accusing, just tired. “What happened?”

“I foolishly told him that David hadn’t been here.”

The Doctor nods with understanding. “And he leaped to conclusions.” He glances at his watch. “Well, he should be out for about eight hours now. I guess Captain Dobey had better be here when he wakes up. I think Detective Hutchinson is going to want some questions answered.”

*******

Across town, a funeral is taking place. A hearse leads a line of cars through the cemetery gates. On a hill overlooking the procession sits a taxicab. Inside the cab, Starsky watches. The whole thing is just too much like a nightmare. A large crowd is gathered. A MINISTER performs the service but, from Starsky’s observation post, the words are, thankfully, unheard.

Graveside, the clergyman softly recites the familiar phrases. All the faces seem to share the same stricken expression: incomprehension. Hutch was one of the indestructibles; if he’s gone, what chance does that give the rest of us? Even Dobey and Huggy seem to have forgotten it’s not real. At the edge of the group, Neal and Martin observe.

As Dobey looks around, trying not to hear what the minister is saying, he notices Starsky standing by a tree about fifty yards up the hill, a cab waiting behind him.

The mental and physical strain on Starsky, from this kind of pretense, and separation from his critically wounded partner, would be very difficult to grasp, However, the results are frighteningly visible: he’s hollow-cheeked, his normal five-o'clock-shadow about twenty-four hours past needing a shave, red-eyed, definitely the worse for wear, and appears to be more than a little drunk. It’s no wonder Dobey’s worried: how much of his detective’s behavior is an act?

After the service, everyone begins to drift away. Dobey and Huggy stand and watch as Starsky makes his unsteady way back up the hill; gets in his cab; watch as it drives away. They do their best to silently bolster either other’s confidence in the outcome of this complicated mess.

*******

Back at Huggy’s, afterward, Huggy and three others who were at the funeral, come in, only to find Starsky already encamped in his corner booth, having made a significant dent in the bottle in front of him.

*******

In Nichols’ lush living room, Neal and Martin are filling their boss in on the latest. “If it’s an act, it’s a mighty good one, Mr. Nichols. He looked like a ghost himself at the funeral.”

Not to be outdone, Martin adds his two cents: “And as soon as it was over, he went straight back to Huggy Bear’s. He’s there now, drinkin’ again.”

Nichols thinks about it for a few moments. “I suppose we’d better see if Detective Starsky would like to talk to us tomorrow.” They are all uncertain and suspicious as hell but, this is an opportunity, so…

*******

That night, in Room Five Twelve of the Fedderson Memorial Clinic, Hutch wakes up to find the Doctor looking at him. Before Hutch can say anything, the Doctor raises his hands, palms outward, forestalling any questions: “Now, don’t start with your questions. I can’t answer them. But Captain Dobey can. He should be here any minute.”

Hutch is still having trouble focusing and getting his mind around what’s happening. “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“What day?”

“Friday. You were shot yesterday, about noon…. Now, please be patient. Captain Dobey can explain everything. But I want you to promise me something, Ken. That you’ll take it easy and try to stay calm. Don’t jump to any conclusions and hear him out. Okay? Everything’s all right.”

Hutch really isn’t interested in hearing any more obfuscation: “What’s going on? Tell me!”

As the Doctor starts to make a placating gesture, the door opens and Dobey walks in. In answer to the questioning look he throws at the Doctor, Dr. Reynolds shrugs and gives him a cautionary nod. Dobey walks to the side of Hutch’s bed and puts a gentle hand on his detective’s arm. “How you doin’ Hutch?”

Hutch isn’t having any of that, either. “What’s happening? Where’s Starsky? If he’s as okay as you all say, why isn’t he here?

Dobey’s had entirely too much experience seeing his two best men cope with physical injury; each leaning on, and drawing strength from the other. This time, Hutch doesn’t have the support he desperately needs. So Dobey does the best he can as a substitute: “Take it easy. He’s fine. He’s at Huggy’s.” Then, quickly, in order to stop Hutch’s questions, “Will you wait a minute? I’m trying to tell you.” At this point, he’s really not sure how to say what Hutch needs to hear so it takes a few moments to get his thoughts together. Hutch waits, as patiently as he can. Finally, Dobey turns a gentle, almost fatherly gaze on one of his unofficially adopted ‘sons,’ and begins explaining. “Yesterday afternoon, I released the story that you had died, as a result of your wound, without regaining consciousness.”

Hutch is shaken, but stays quiet, knowing now that there’s a great deal more and waiting for Dobey to figure out how to say it.

“Starsky and I went back to the precinct, where he blew up, demanding Nichols for himself. We had an argument and he drew an official reprimand. He left, went straight to Huggy’s and drank himself into a stupor; stayed there last night.”

Hutch is struggling against his mental sluggishness and things that just don’t make any sense. “Starsky doesn’t drink hard liquor.”

Dobey is uncomfortable with the whole thing, trying to get through it without upsetting Hutch any more than he already is. “I know… That was probably the hardest part.” He stops for a beat, then continues, softer, “No, on second thought, it wasn’t.” He trails off as he realizes Hutch hasn’t heard him. So he continues, briskly, “Anyway, late last night, we brought you here.”

Hutch has put it all together and can’t believe it. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute! You’re not tryin’ to pull that old ‘good cop gone bad’ routine, are you?”

Dobey is suddenly trying to put out a fire he’s inadvertently started. “Take it easy, Hutch. It’s all right. It was Starsky’s --”

Hutch cuts him off, weak and furious: “Nobody’ll believe that! Especially not if they know Starsky.”

The Doctor leans over, his hand on Hutch’s shoulder, his voice commanding: “Ken! Settle down. I mean it.”

After a few agonized beats, Hutch manages to get himself back under control, looks contritely at the Doctor, then at Dobey. “I’m all right now.... I’m sorry, Captain. Go on.”

Dobey is mollified but still uncertain he’s done the right thing; does his best to be convincing. “Ordinarily, you’d be right. Nobody’d believe it. But, this isn’t an ordinary situation. Don’t forget, you’ve been killed, gunned down from ambush. Starsky’s been thwarted by the Department in his bid for personal revenge. He’s had two public arguments with me, and been officially reprimanded. And, evidently, he’s just not handling it too well. He’s drinking heavily and beginning to fall apart.” After a beat, he has to tell Hutch the rest; he owes it to him. “And I’ll tell you something, when I saw him at the funeral this afternoon, I almost believed it myself.”

That gets through to Hutch’s wandering, preoccupied thoughts. He looks his question at Dobey, who nods, solemnly; it’s not a pleasant memory. And maybe he’s getting too good at this mind-meld business. “Two o’clock. I’m really glad you weren’t there.”

Hutch can barely get the words out: “Is he okay?”

“It’s been rough, but I think he’s hanging in there.”

More silence, the Doctor and Dobey exchange a look of their own. Then Hutch’s voice brings them back, sounding almost defeated: “Nichols will never buy it.”

Apparently this has been considered and Dobey responds with careful enthusiasm: “Of course, he won’t! Not right away, at least. We all know that. But he’s curious. Two of his men were in Huggy’s all last night and three others have been keeping close tabs on your partner today…. Now, we know that Nichols has been trying to get to somebody in the department for years. And, if there’s the smallest chance he can buy Dave, he’s got to try it.”

Hutch understands the thinking, but he really, REALLY doesn’t like it. “So, Starsky walks in, wired, gets scanned, and he’s a dead man.”

Dobey can’t keep the enjoyment out of his voice: “That’s where we have something Nichols doesn’t know about yet - a controllable transmitter…. This way, Starsky waits ’til after he’s past the detection gear, before activating it. Then, when Nichols is convinced he isn’t wired, your partner should be able to get him to talk. After that, it just depends on how much he says.”

Hutch is getting very tired and wants it all over with. “How soon?”

“We don’t know. I’m going to meet Starsky in about an hour and get him set up with the wire. Then we all wait. It could be tomorrow, it could be days yet. But it was his idea, and he thinks he can pull it off.” He actually smiles as he pats Hutch’s arm. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised either.”

The Doctor motions for Dobey to cut things off; Hutch doesn’t notice. “Who’s got his back?”

“That’s all been worked out, so don’t worry…. And I promise you, Hutch, we won’t lose him.”

The Doctor finally breaks in, knowing his patient has reached his limit. “That’s enough for now. You can go over the rest tomorrow.”

Hutch closes his eyes, exhausted. Dobey turns to go, but Hutch opens his eyes and calls him back: “Captain?” Dobey turns back, waiting. “Will you give him a message for me?”

“Sure.”

“Tell him… tell him to hurry up and finish this thing… so he can come visit…. I miss his ugly face.”

Dobey has to swallow a couple of times before he can reply. “I’ll tell him.” FADE OUT

ACT 4

Later that night, at the precinct, Dobey and BERT DONNER, from the ‘gadgets’ department, are waiting in one of the interrogation rooms, Donner fiddling with his equipment. After a few moments, Starsky comes in. If anything, he looks worse than he did earlier; really scruffy in old, filthy borrowed clothes, a two-day growth of beard, uncombed hair. Dobey makes the introductions: “Starsky, you remember Bert Donner, don’t you?”

“Sure, how are you?” Starsky holds out a very dirty hand, realizes he shouldn’t offer to shake with such an offensive paw, starts to draw it back.

Donner grabs it and doesn’t seem to mind the lack of cleanliness. “I’m a big fan of yours and Detective Hutchinson. When Captain Dobey explained what you need, I couldn’t wait to come up and show you what we’ve got; you’re gonna love it!” He turns back to his case full of electronics.

Dobey is worried about Nichols’ men and their close attention to Starsky: “Are you sure they didn’t see you leave?”

“I’m sure. They think I’m in the men’s room, being sick. Huggy told everybody he’d have me and the toilet cleaned up in about an hour. Think we can finish in that time?”

Donner, realizing that the question was directed at him, looks up from his tinkering. “No problem.”

Starsky takes his jacket off; throws it over a chair.

Dobey’s really concerned about Starsky’s appearance and condition. “Don’t you think you’re carrying this drinking business a little too far?”

Starsky stops in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt; he and Dobey stare at each other until Dobey backs down; puts less gruffness in his voice. “All right…. I’m asking because Hutch is worried about you, too.” Suddenly, Starsky’s eyes show a spark of life; he silently begs Dobey for good news. “He gave me a message for you. He asked you to try and wrap this thing up in a hurry… said he misses your ugly face.”

Slowly, Starsky’s pent-up fears and tensions drain away and a very relived, thankful smile lights his face. “Thanks, Cap’n.” With more animation than he has shown since walking out of the hospital, he finishes unbuttoning the shirt and whips it off. “Well, let’s get to it!”

Donner has removed a small device he’s been testing and monitoring, and a roll of surgical tape. He motions for Starsky to turn around; tapes the transmitter between his shoulder blades, during: “You'll have to remember not to lean back against cushions when it’s on, it screws up the reception…. But don’t worry about getting it wet in the shower, you can’t hurt it. In fact, if you fell out of a thirty story window, this little beauty would probably still be working after you landed.”

Starsky’s humor is almost back in place. “Gee. That’s a great comfort, Bert.”

The atmosphere is definitely lighter as he puts his shirt and jacket back on. Dobey gets down to business. “All right. This is the way we’ve got it figured; see what you think. Contact will be made at Huggy’s, since that’s the only place you’ll be. As soon as you leave with Nichols' men, and Huggy’s sure he’s not being watched, he’ll call us.” Starsky leans a hip against the table, listening hard. “We’re going to stake out the three most likely places Nichols’ll meet you, starting tomorrow morning, his house, apartment, and office. They’ll probably drive you around a while, to make sure you’re not being followed, and they may have detection gear in the car…. When you get to whichever place it is, our guys’ll spot you and we all converge. Now --”

Starsky jumps into Dobey’s slight pause: “What if he…” but quickly realizes his Captain hasn’t finished. “Sorry, Cap’n. Go ahead.”

Dobey heaves a sigh; oh what he has to put up with. Then it’s back on track. “Now… if he happens to want to meet somewhere other than these three places, try to give us a clue with your first words, once you think it’s safe to activate the transmitter. Someone will be monitoring the frequency at all times. I think we know every one of his rat holes and hideouts in this city, so just try to give us a clue. But… I don’t expect that’ll be necessary. Once his boys are sure you’re not wired, and not being followed, they’ll take you where Benny’s comfortable. I’m betting it’ll be the downtown apartment.”

Dobey takes a moment to think about what he’s said and what else he needs to explain. “Once you’re in there, you’ll have to play it by ear. Don’t try to force things, but we’ll take any and all admissions he wants to make.” He waits for Starsky to digest everything. “What do you think?”

Starsky considers; shrugs and nods approval. “Sounds like you’ve covered everything.”

Dobey certainly hopes so. And then one last thing: “Will you do me a favor and take care of yourself?” He shrugs a little self-consciously. “I kinda promised Hutch.”

Starsky throws his captain an almost-jaunty salute, turns to leave, thinks of something and turns back to Donner. “Hey! How do I turn this thing on?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot." Already packing up, Donner smiles. "Sneeze.”

“What?”

“Sneeze," Donner repeated. "Once. Hard.”

“That’s all?” Donner nods. “What if somebody else sneezes?”

Donner shakes his head dismissively. “It’s the vibrations through the chest cavity.”

Starsky gives a wondering nod, and a shrug toward Dobey. “And if I want to turn it off?”

“Cough hard. Twice.”

Starsky shakes his head in amazed appreciation, and almost grins; heads for the door. “See you later, Cap’n.”

Dobey quietly tells the closing door, “We’ll be there, son.”

*******

It’s morning again at Huggy Bear’s. Starsky sits at the bar, drinking some dark-colored liquid from a glass. Huggy comes out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of clean glasses; goes behind the bar and begins stacking them on the shelves against the wall. “You’re up awful early to get started drinkin’. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder about you, m’ man. You seem to be takin’ to that stuff like a duck.”

“Appearances only, Mr. Bear. Appearances only.”

Huggy turns around, surprised that Starsky actually sounds, and looks happy. As he stands there, waiting for some explanation, Starsky indicates the glass: “It’s coffee, but I couldn’t find any clean cups.”

Huggy has the proverbial light bulb turn on in his head. “Hutch is better?”

Starsky actually smiles. “Dobey says Hutch is better. And I’ve got a feelin’ this could be the day, Hug. Listen, why don’t I fix us both some breakfast?”

Before either of them can implement the idea, Neal and Martin walk in the door. Starsky immediately dons his mask and slumps over his ‘drink.’ The men wait a few moments, while their eyes adjust to the dim light, before walking over and sittinf on either side of Starsky. He pays them absolutely no attention, just stares at his glass. Martin motions Huggy to ‘get lost,’ so he moves away, heading back to the kitchen.

Neal leans over toward Starsky. “How would you like to come for a nice ride?”

Starsky gives them no response whatsoever.

Martin picks it up. “Mr. Nichols wants to talk to you.”

After a few silent moments, Starsky slowly looks at each of them, then back down at his glass. “Tell him to go to Hell.”

Both men control their anger, with difficulty. Neal tries again: “Mr. Nichols is very interested in having a chat with you, and he thinks it might be worth your while.”

Starsky looks at him again, disgust and tired contempt written all over. Without a word, he gets off the stool and walks out. The others follow.

Huggy comes out of the kitchen, goes to the door and looks out the inset window, watches, then hurries behind the bar, picks up the phone; dials.

*******

For a long time, Neal drives Nichols’ black Continental around the city, back and forth, round and round, Martin is watchful in the back seat, next to an apparently sleeping Starsky. Neal and Martin are both experts at detecting a tail and they are also hyper-alert, expecting trouble. At one point, Neal reaches down next to his seat and flicks the switch on a meter.

INSERT CLOSE UP OF METER, registering nothing; the needle doesn’t move.

Neal catches Martin’s eye in his rearview mirror, shakes his head negatively, and shrugs; turns the meter off. But he continues to drive watchfully.

Eventually, they pull up at the covered entry to a luxury apartment building. A Doorman opens the door for Martin as Starsky and Neal get out the other side. In a nondescript sedan across the street and half a block away, two men watch as Starsky and his two companions enter the building. The DRIVER already has the radio’s mic in his hand. “Unit fourteen to Captain Dobey.”

Over the radio we can hear Dobey’s strained voice: “Go ahead, fourteen.”

“They’re here, sir.”

“We’re on our way.”

*******

Having been escorted into Nichols’ living room, Starsky is sullen and uncommunicative while Nichols is all effusive hospitality. “Detective Starsky! Thank you for coming. Come in, come in. May I offer you some morning refreshment?” He walks behind the bar. “Juice, perhaps? Coffee?” A knowing look and a harder edge: “Something stronger?”

Starsky doesn’t even bother to look at him. “No. Thanks.”

“Please do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. We have much to talk about.”

Without appearing to show too much interest, Starsky checks out the room as he moves over and sinks down, diagonally, in the corner of a short sofa, puts his feet up on the coffee table. Nichols makes himself a Bloody Mary, while all three men watch Starsky warily. With the drink ready, Nichols reaches under the bar and activates something, probably another meter. Neal and Martin are very tense, waiting.

After a few moments of looking downward, Nichols visibly relaxes; the other two do as well.

Smiling broadly, Nichols takes his drink and moves over to sit on the other end of the sofa. Neal and Martin take chairs across the room. As if disgusted with things in general, Starsky slaps his hand against the arm of the sofa, raising a bit of dust. He sneezes.

Nichols is ready to get down to business. “Now then, Dave… you don’t mind if I call you Dave, I hope.” No response. So he continues, unfazed: “Now then, I understand that you’re no longer too thrilled with your job.”

“You should know.”

“What does that mean, Dave?”

“You had my partner killed.”

“I did no such thing. That was an accident.”

Starsky stares at Nichols, allowing a little of his profound hatred to show. “You gave the orders those goons followed.”

Nichols isn’t about to get trapped that easily. He’s still in control. “Perhaps I did give general orders but they are always open to interpretation.”

Starsky seems to be attempting to control his building rage and having some difficulty. He drops his feet to the floor and sits forward. “General orders, like destroying books, or cutting the phones off… or blowin’ away a _cop?_ ” He takes a deep breath, regaining control. “Come off it, Nichols! You’re responsible for Hutch’s death and we both know it. Now why don’t you just cut the crap and tell me why you had your goons bring me all the way over here?”

Neal and Martin have not been happy with this whole situation and now they’re both almost on their feet before Nichols can motion them to take it easy. They subside, unhappily, while Nichols thinks; comes to a decision. “All right. I like a man who comes straight to the point. I suppose I am responsible for your partner’s death, but that’s over, and I can’t see that it would do either one of us any good to dwell on the fact, or the circumstances.”

He pauses but gets no reaction from Starsky, who has put his feet back up on the coffee table and leaned back in the corner of the sofa again. Therefore, he continues his persuasion. “I think we can be of some benefit to each other… if you’re willing to listen to what I have to say?” Still no response. This is taking more effort than Nichols thought but still, it could be worth it. “As I see it, Dave, you need a reason to go back to your job. What if I gave you one?”

“How much?” Starsky growls.

Nichols had been getting doubtful but this immediate reaction pleases him. He actually smiles at Starsky. “Say, two hundred a week, to start?”

Starsky doesn’t bother to comment. He drops his feet back to the floor; gets up; moves toward the door. Neal and Martin jump up, reaching for their guns. Nichols, remaining seated, signals them to wait. Starsky stops at the door; turns around and looks at Nichols, bored. “Since you’re not sayin’ anything I want to hear, I’m ready to go. Can I get a ride back to the Pits?…. Please?”

Nichols is actually enjoying himself. “Sit down, Dave…. Please?”

Clearly reluctantly, Starsky moves back over to his place on the sofa; sits down, as Nichols continues: “Why don’t you tell me what you would consider fair?”

“That depends on what you expect to get for it.”

“Just a little information, whenever you have it.”

“What kind of information?”

“That would be entirely up to you, Dave.”

They regard each other, having felt out their respective ‘fencing’ techniques. Starsky decides it's time to get down to brass tacks. “Information such as times and places of stake-outs on your operations, Nichols? Or when the Department is planning a bust? Or, maybe where a certain witness is being guarded?”

“Yes, Dave. Such information would be very advantageous.”

Starsky looks away, his voice flat as the proverbial pancake: “A thousand a week.”

Nichols starts to laugh; catches himself; reconsiders and thinks a few seconds. “All right. A thousand a week. But, I’ll expect to get my money’s worth.”

“You will.”

“Fair enough. Neal, will you bring me the box, please?”

Neal, still not happy with things, gets up; moves over to the desk; takes a box out of the bottom drawer; walks over and gives it to Nichols; remains standing there, waiting.

Nichols works the combination lock; opens the box and counts out the appropriate number of bills, thoroughly enjoying himself. When he has the correct amount, he re-locks the box; returns it to Neal, who heads back to the desk; returns the box to the drawer; moves back to his chair and sits down.

With everyone back in their proper places, Nichols holds the money out to Starsky. “Detective Starsky, your first week’s salary.”

Starsky takes it without looking at it, blandly stuffs it in his jacket pocket. Nichols is just a little surprised at this degree of unconcern, but is too pleased to worry about it. “I think this calls for a drink. Won’t you join me now, Dave?”

Starsky’s more than ready to go but realizes Nichols wants to draw things out a little more. “If I have to get back to work, I’d better be sober. Make it coffee.”

“Excellent, Dave. Excellent! I like to know that my people are conscientious.” He notions to Martin. “A refill for me, please, Martin, and a cup of coffee for Dave.”

Martin gets up; comes over and takes Nichols’ glass; moves behind the bar as Nichols continues to talk: "I want you to feel free to call me anytime you think you have something I might want to know, Dave. Neal will give you my private number --”

He is interrupted by a shout from Martin, behind the bar, who is staring downward to his left: “Hey! He _is_ wired!”

Instantly, things happen: Neal and Martin draw their weapons, as Nichols yells: “Kill him!”

Neal snaps off two shots as Starsky throws himself violently over backward, overturning the sofa and grabbing Nichols at the same time.

Outside the apartment building, Dobey and about six other detectives and uniformed officers pour through the front doors, past the astonished doorman.

In Nichols’ living room, Starsky is pinned down behind the overturned sofa, with an armlock on Nichols’ neck. He is content to wait, because neither of the men can get a clear shot at him, they’re afraid of hitting their boss. Starsky has a crease along his right arm but, generally speaking, things have not gone too badly; at least the pretending is over.

The door shatters from the hallway and Dobey, plus others, rush through. The incident is quickly finished; Neal and Martin give up readily. They and Nichols are searched, cuffed and led away, being read their rights.

As things begin to settle down, Dobey notices the blood on Starsky’s sleeve. “Are you all right?”

Starsky glances down but doesn’t seem fazed in the least. “Yeah. But don’t worry, I’m going to the hospital anyway.”

Dobey motions to one of the uniformed officers. “Al can drive you. And it's the Fessenden Clinic, not the hospital.

“Thanks, Captain.” He heads for the door, then stops as he snaps his fingers: “Oh! Almost forgot.” He walks back to Dobey, taking the envelope of money out of his pocket with a lop-sided grin: “My first week’s salary.”

Dobey takes the money with a mock-serious expression on his face: “I was wondering if you’d try to keep this.”

It’s been a very long couple of days and Starsky is actually uncertain about Dobey’s statement. “Really?”

Dobey immediately relents, a little sorry he even tried to be ‘funny.’ “No. Not really.”

Starsky brightens instantly: “Oh. Okay!” He smiles happily and turns again for the door; Dobey puts a hand out and stops him one last time. “Starsky… Good work.”

“Thanks for being there, Cap’n.” Starsky practically bounces out the door. On Dobey’s definitely satisfied smile, FADE OUT.

TAG

At the clinic, later that day, the elevator doors open and Dr. Reynolds rushes out, looking harried and worried; strides to the nurse’s station, where Beth is making notes on a patient’s chart. He’s a little stressed: “They told me Dave was here. That he’s wounded.”

Beth puts the chart away, smiling to alleviate the Doctor’s concerns: “It was a very superficial crease. I put a dressing on it for him, with his promise that he’d let you take care of it later.”

“But, why didn’t he wait for…” He stops, realizing she’s here at the nurse’s station, when she should be in Room Five Twelve. His voice is probably sharper than intended, but then, it’s been a tense few days. “Why aren’t you in the room? You know I don’t want him left alone yet.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I thought you realized… I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, but I didn’t think you’d object.”

The explanation dawns on him and he is a little chagrinned. “Of course. I’m sorry, Beth. I guess my nerves are more frayed than I realized.” He takes a breath or two, then smiles. “But what do you say, we just go and check. Okay?”

She nods her assent and they both move down the hallway toward Room Five Twelve. As they open the door quietly, they can see that Hutch is asleep, breathing easily, the monitors have been turned down, or off. Starsky has drawn the chair up close to the far side of the bed and is sitting with his feet propped up on the bedside table, ankles crossed. His left hand rests on the bed, covering Hutch’s left hand. And Starsky, too, is asleep.

The Doctor and Beth smile at each, back out and softly close the door.

Inside, Hutch stirs slightly. Starsky’s eyes snap open and he watches as Hutch wakes up. Starsky removes his feet from the table and sits up; leaves his hand covering Hutch’s. As Hutch begins to focus on the look in his partner’s eyes, he turns his hand and grips Starsky’s firmly. “You okay?”

Starsky can actually smile now. “Yeah… You?”

“Better.” He notices the bandage on Starsky’s arm. “What happened to your arm?”

“It’s a scratch. When I heard you were beatin’ my time with Beth, I had to do something.”

Hutch starts to laugh but it turns to a choking cough. Starsky jumps up, ready to get help, but Hutch holds tightly to his hand, silently sending, _Wait, it's all right._ After several painful spasms, he has it under control and manages a rueful smile. “That’s the first time I’ve tried to laugh. Remind me not to do it again for a while.”

Starsky settles back in the chair, putting his feet up again. Hutch draws in a slow, deep breath; holds it; lets it out cautiously. “It’s good to be back.”

Starsky looks at him for a few moments before deciding he needs to say something. “You remember that time you told me it was always harder on the ones left behind?”

Hutch remembers, oh God, does he remember. “Yeah.”

“You were right.”

Each knows what the other has been through, and no words are needed. The look they exchange, and the hands not willing to relinquish the much needed contact, say it all. Starsky settles himself a little more comfortably, leans his head back and closes his eyes. Hutch relaxes completely for the first time since he was shot, closes his eyes, happy to have his partner back, seemingly almost none the worse for their ordeal. Suddenly, though, he has a thought. Without bothering to open his eyes, he speaks softly: “Hey?”

Starsky is basking in the proximity of his partner, who’s going to be okay, his best friend that he came so close to losing; tightens his hand on Hutch’s a little, but doesn‘t open his eyes either. “M’mmm?”

“Didja get the bad guys?”

Starsky smiles, his eyes still closed. Trust Hutch to remember the exact words; even the slight slur. “Yeah, partner, we got ‘em.”

Hutch smiles at that himself. We. Yeah, he guessed he probably had been part of the operation; his ‘dying’ guaranteed that Starsky would never give up until he put Benny Nichols away. He tightens his grip on Starky’s hand, content.

Starsky knows they need to quit talking so Hutch can get some sleep. “I don’t know about you, buddy, but I’m tired. Can’t keep my eyes open.” He yawns and settles just a little more deeply in the chair. “G’night.”

Hutch opens his eyes and takes a good look at the way his partner is scrunched in that posture-ruining chair. “Not there, Starsk. You can’t possibly be comfortable…. Starsky?”

“Will you shut up? Please? I’m asleep.”

Hutch shakes his head, admitting defeat. Smiles. “Good night, partner.” Then he, too, goes to sleep.

END

**Author's Note:**

> When Rick Edelstein, Story Editor after 2nd season, returned this script to me, his cover letter praised it but said the audience would never believe Hutch was dead. Well, duh, I said to myself, the *audience* was never intended to believe it; Benny Nichols *was*! But that cover letter made me realize that Edelstein didn't have any more clue about the characters and actors in the series he was supposedly shepherding than most of his staff of writers. Oh well...


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